Aria
The courtyard was still echoing with Ryle’s words.
“This Luna is a disgrace to Blue Stone.”
The humiliation cracked through my bones louder than any punch Selene could’ve thrown. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide—some in pity, most in agreement. None of them said a word.
Not even Matthew.
I stood above Selene, still pinned to the dirt, heart racing, lungs burning, sweat dripping down my temples.
But something inside me snapped. Not like glass—like iron bending under too much weight.
I straightened slowly, my body sore and shaking, but I forced myself upright.
I looked at the wolves surrounding the training ring—the warriors who’d trained beside me, the elders who’d sneered from behind closed doors, the Omegas who whispered behind my back.
And I reached for the silver Luna crest pinned to the front of my dress. My fingers gripped it tightly—then I yanked.
The metal tore free, leaving a jagged scratch over my chest. I held the crest in the air, voice trembling—but strong.
“If I’m a disgrace,” I said, “then take it.”
And I dropped it in the dirt at Ryle’s feet.
Gasps echoed through the pack like a wave. My heart thudded wildly. I could see Selene blinking in confusion from the ground, and Ryle’s face tightening with something unreadable.
Then I did what no one expected.
I shifted.
Right there in front of them all—no warning, no hesitation—I let the bond of my human form melt away and gave myself to the wolf.
Silver fur burst through my skin. My body lengthened and changed. It hurt—gods, it always hurt—but I didn’t flinch.
I stood tall in my wolf form—a glimmering silver creature with bright, burning eyes.
My wolf wasn’t fat. My wolf wasn’t soft.
She was radiant. Proud. Untouchable. But the pack? They just… stared.
No cheering. No howling. Just silence. Like they didn’t know what to do with a she-wolf who didn’t beg for acceptance.
I shifted back.
My body fell to the ground, trembling with fatigue, my clothes shredded, breath ragged. The world spun, my vision dimming around the edges.
I pushed up to my knees, trying to stand—
And then everything went dark.
I came in strong arms.
My bare skin pressed to warm cloth, and I felt the rise and fall of a chest beneath my cheek. Fingers gripped my thigh and back, holding me steady.
Matthew.
He was carrying me—in front of everyone.
I blinked up at him, dazed. His face was unreadable. Tense. Distant.
But his grip? Steady.
I didn’t know what I felt. Shame. Rage. Weakness. But most of all, confusion. Because I hadn’t asked him. But he’d come.
The crowd parted as he walked, not saying a word. No one dared.
Inside the Pack House, he took the stairs two at a time, the silence stretching between us like a blade.
He pushed open the door to his chambers—not mine, his—and set me gently on the bed.
The fire was already lit.
He didn’t speak.
He grabbed a clean blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders without meeting my eyes. Then he pulled out a first-aid kit, kneeling by the bed. His hands were practiced—he cleaned the scratches, dabbed ointment on my bruises, and wrapped my ankle where I must’ve twisted it when I collapsed.
I watched him the whole time. His jaw was locked. His eyes fixed on the task—not me.
“Why?” I whispered.
He paused.
“You didn’t have to carry me.”
His voice was quiet. Cold. “You would’ve passed out in the dirt.”
“I was already in the dirt.”
His hand froze against my arm, the cloth falling still. I swallowed, my throat tight. “You could’ve let Elias help me.”
At that, something sharp flashed in his eyes.
“I told you before,” he muttered, finishing the bandage and standing up, “don’t mistake this for love.”
I stared at him, heat rising in my chest. “Then what is it?”
He turned away, voice low. “I’m protecting what’s mine.”
My heart cracked a little more.
“Yours?” I repeated. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to make this better. Like being yours means something.”
He didn’t answer.
I sat up, gripping the blanket around me. “You protect me in public—but in private you break me. Over and over again.”
Still, nothing.
I stared at the fire, tears welling up. “Then stop breaking me every time you touch me.”
The words hung in the air like smoke—sharp and stinging. And he left them there. No apology. No denial.
When I woke the next morning, the fire had burned out. My body still ached, but I pushed myself up and walked toward the wardrobe, expecting a new dress. My Luna robes always arrived after sunrise—pressed, folded, symbolic.
But there was nothing. No tray. No dress. Instead, tucked beneath the door was a sealed envelope—Ryle’s official wax crest pressed into the back.
I opened it with shaking hands.
“As of this morning, the Blue Stone Council—under Alpha Ryle’s leadership—has officially revoked your Luna title. Though the mate bond remains, your position is no longer recognized.”
No signature. No explanation. Just that. A claim still bound to me. But no title. No respect. No place. I was Matthew’s mate.
But no longer his Luna.